Charles

~~~

Today, Arthur took me out to the lake. It's been snowing quite consistently throughout the night, and the surroundings seemed dulled by the bright whiteness.

The lake hadn't frozen over yet, and the cold waters seemed black and frighteningly deep in comparison to the surrounding snow.

Arthur said he wanted to paint again, so I helped him bring out an easel and other materials. He mentioned that his bones have been aching, and that he's having a rather hard time moving right now.

I feel like, even if his bones didn't ache, he'd still have trouble carrying his equipment all the way out by the lake, - the man is as scrawny as a stick. That, of course, does not make him any less breathtaking, - because that's how I see him. He also seems to be quite sick, as he repeatedly coughs into a handkerchief. Upon noticing this, I suggested that maybe it would be better for him to stay home, at least for today, but he insisted. He claimed to do this often, and that the cold, dry air doesn't really bother him that much, especially if he's dressed well.

I do recall that he was sitting in his garden wearing but slacks and a thin shirt, I doubt he often dresses well when venturing outside. He seems to be quite reckless when it comes to his own health, but who am I to judge - I walk the rooftops of the mansion in my bare feet, when a single slip could result in me tumbling to my death.

In addition, I did not want to quarrel with him. I still didn't know him well enough, and I was afraid to lose my chance at keeping my sanity. As selfish as it is, I'm afraid I'm using Arthur as a distraction from my otherwise dark and lunacy inducing thoughts. That is my priority right now.

We spent the day mainly in silence, with Arthur submerging into a light-headed focus, as he worked his paintbrush across the canvas, creating the image of the dark lake encompassed by the snow, with a single red rose floating in the water. It was a beautiful picture, and Dove finished it by the end of the day, working quicker than most artists I've known in the mansion... and yet he did not seem content. Upon placing the last brush stroke, he turned away with a disappointed sigh, and dropped the paintbrush into the snow.

I, who walked around or stood by him for most of the day, asked as to what was wrong. He mumbled something about the painting being "ugly", and stormed off into the forest.

I do not understand this man. He creates an image that appears close to perfect, and yet seems to hate it from the bottom of his heart.

He himself also seems mainly perfect, but I feel like he would disagree if I said so.

I remember looking at the painting and feeling furious about Arthur's distaste for it.

I waited for him to return to the easel, but he seemed to have wandered off, so, still irritated by his attitude towards his day's-long work, I did my best to carefully retrieve all the equipment back to his house.

I sat in his small kitchen waiting for him for about another hour, slowly amassing the frustration until it developed into anger.

Arthur stepped in the door about half an hour after sundown.

He had taken off his coat, and, once again, was clad only in his shirt and slacks. He seemed paler than before, and his face showed clear signs of exhaustion.

I was going to lash out at him for running off like that, my decision not to clash with him for as long as possible completely out of my mind, but upon seeing the state he was in, all the anger within me suddenly disappeared into thin air.

He was so burnt-out that I was afraid he might wither away if I as much as touched him... just like the flower in the dream I had.

He looked at me, apologetically, and his smile was oh so similar to that of my brother's when he rejected my offer to stay the night. It was a sad and tired smile, a forced one.

Arthur apologized about wandering off like a child throwing a tantrum, and said that he was tired from painting all day and that might've been what made him act like that.

He also suggested that it would probably be better if I didn't come to visit tomorrow. I felt somehow heart-broken, like a maid might feel when her confession of love has been rejected. But I wasn't rejected, and I wasn't in love - such a foolish thought that was, I haven't been in quite a long time, - and this feeling seems quite confusing to me.

I agreed that he needed to rest in peace, and, after saying our goodbyes, I made my way back through the forest.

Arthur's health seems to be quite weak, but he himself doesn't appear to be too concerned about it.

And why, in God's name, won't he dress up? Every time he disappears from vision, his cover up is immediately reduced to that thin shirt and trousers. So little material between the cold air and his pale, soft skin, that can almost be seen through the silken material. When you see him dress like that, you can't help but wonder how he doesn't have pneumonia and is still alive. Unless that's what his occasional coughs are - a sign of a developing illness that will likely claim his life. From the looks of it, he's killing himself, and almost on purpose, too.

I'm becoming agitated all over again. I need to cool down, go to sleep. There will be plenty of time to write tomorrow, as Arthur requested that I do not visit him.

It's been fifteen days.